The day I sold my car was one of the most liberating of my life says Julia Stephenson

It was like being set free from a prison of bureaucratic anxiety and expense.  When you factor in insurance, MOT’s, speeding fines, tickets, rescue remedy, permits and services, running a car had cost me a minimum of £4,000 a year.  Now I could indulge myself with the odd black cab and still be quids in.  I would not need to take cabs much anyway, I live in central London surrounded by tube stations and busses, and I was now the owner of a brand new bike.

Ahh - cabs.  I can't resist them. Like tempting private chauffeurs, they zoom up and down my street, eager to save me the trouble and stress of public transport and whiz me to my destination unstressed and dry of armpit.   Without a car, I was fast developing ATTD (Addiction to Taxis Disorder) of massive proportions.

Unfortunately they are not a green mode of transport (unless you book a cab company like Green Tomato Taxis, whose entire fleet consists of Toyota Prius yet still compare favourably price wise with normal taxis). And yet even hybrid cars are not the energy saviour many people think. Ultimately, the most environmentally friendly car is one you do not buy. And, in theory, hanging onto an old banger may be better for the environment - even though it will emit more pollution than a modern car, because each new car built leaves a sizeable carbon footprint.

My eco coach had written most firmly in my eco audit, 'It will compromise your credibility if you turn up to green conferences and Green Party events in a taxi.'  Well I knew this – that is why I always got them to drop me off round the corner so no one could see.

The trouble is, black cabs run on diesel, which emits less CO2 than regular petrol but is more polluting and a contributory factor in asthma and respiratory diseases.  There are 21,000 taxis in the capital at the time of writing, and even though they are cleaner nowadays than they were, the newest diesel TX4 still emits 226g of carbon dioxide per kilometre, putting it in the top band of polluters.

There was nothing for it; I would have to learn to love my bike.  However, this was difficult, as we did not get on at all.  It was the cyclist's equivalent of a porche when what I wanted was a mini; it had 20 speeds and was heavy and cumbersome.  I'd chain it up to lampposts and it would frequently topple over annoyingly, almost purposely, I felt, to irritate me.

Even worse, now we both had bikes, S got very keen on the idea of cycle rides at the weekend.  He had this idea of cycling to Battersea Park, which is a good half mile away, cycling round it, then cycling home.  It sounded exhausting - who did he think I was, the iron man?

But he seemed to think it would be romantic and began to tout the alarming idea of cycling to Brighton.  Maybe I am missing something, but there is nothing romantic about cycling together; we bicker on bikes as much as we did in a car.  I am `too slow', `too fast', or I make `too much eye contact with drivers,' which he thinks makes them more likely to run me down.  His lack of confidence in my ability on two wheels makes me nervous and dithery – it is like when men watch you park your car, you just cannot seem to do it

One of the alarming things about cycling (look I do not want to put anyone off, I am just being frank, OK?) is that it's very bad for the skin.  Cyclists are like skiers with their splendidly lithe figures topped with windblown and leathery complexions.  When I venture out on two wheels, I always take the precaution of heavily protecting myself with Dr Hauska biodynamic sun repellent, which gives my face an unbecoming ghostly sheen.

The other unappealing thing about being a cyclist is that it's like being pregnant; people always want to tell you what to do.  I am constantly been told to buy a helmet, but helmets make cyclists look like they know what they're doing and this would surely make me less safe.  As it is, wobbling along slowly and erratically mean drivers give me an enormous girth, sometimes they don't dare overtake me at all, fearful that I might swerve into them at any moment.  But they barely give professional looking cyclists whizzing along in sweaty Day-Glo Lycra and alarming warlike pointy helmets any margin of error at all.  No, I reckon I am far better off without one.

Sometimes Mayor Boris likes to wear his helmet but often he prefers the freedom of going without.

Anyway, after several weeks of pedalling misery I decided to secretly give up cycling.  It was a relief to succumb to my ATTD full-time, while I allowed my beastly bike to languish, occasionally toppling over in a light wind, outside my flat.  Maybe, I hoped generously, someone might nick it and give it a better home.

Then, one day I was rushing out of my flat about to hail a cab so conveniently driving past (who needs a chauffeur) and I noticed my bike had gone!  Perhaps it had been gone for days but I hadn't noticed.  Hallelujah!  There is a God I thought, leaping gleefully into the cab.

But no sooner had I got used to my no bike bliss when S, eager to resume our bickering bicycle rides, found a broken bike in a skip which he impressively reconditioned to peak condition and presented with a flourish.  This bike is a dream to ride, it only has three gears, and it never topples over, however carelessly it is propped up.  The moral is you don't always get what you pay for when it comes to bikes, cheaper can be better.

Now I have a bike I can get along with, I am becoming much more confident and happy on two wheels.  But I must confess I do not think Swiss Cottage Cabs will be going out of business any time soon.